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THIRTY-TWO
My mother didn’t make the connection with Des either. Ironic, given how quickly she pointed the finger at Matty only a short while later.
He came over the night Des was arrested, bringing a bulging sack of Chinese food from Singapore Garden.
‘What’s the news?’ I asked.
Chinese was our go-to meal whenever we were celebrating.
‘Just a good day,’ he smiled. ‘Bit of a breakthrough on a case I’ve been working on.’
My mother came over, a big smile on her face.
‘What a treat!’
A delicious waft of spring rolls and Peking duck rose up from the bag.
‘What’s the case?’ she asked.
‘I wish I could tell you, but. . .’
She’d heard that before, put her hands up in mock surrender.
‘Yeah, yeah. . . confidential.’
Matty kissed her nose.
‘Did you get seaweed?’ I asked.
‘Got the whole menu pretty much.’
‘Forgot the plum sauce though,’ I said rummaging in the bags.
He helped me look, found the pot stuffed at the bottom.
‘You malign me, madam.’
He put me in a headlock, the opening move in the Prisoner Game.
‘Stop!’
‘Let me hear you beg.’
My mother watched, an odd expression on her face.
‘She’s a bit old for that, Matty.’
‘She’s too old when she can get away.’
But he let me go.
We ate in front of the TV, watched the latest on the arrest, which was basically just a re-hash of everything we already knew.
‘I don’t get it,’ I said.
‘Don’t get what, pumpkin?’
‘There have been thousands of calls to the tip line. What’s so special about this one?’
